Home
by Megara79
Summary: Coming home isn't as easy as it should have been. A post-Endgame story set nine weeks after Voyager's return.


**Title: Home  
Author: Megara79  
Series: Star Trek: Voyager  
Rating: K+  
Summary: Coming home isn't as easy as it should have been.  
Disclaimer: I own nothing.**

**As always; thanks to: Evil Shall Giggle, my wonderful partner in crime. **

He's sitting in an oversized recliner, wearing nothing but a pair of pyjama bottoms, nursing his drink. His third for the night. He's drained, worn out, but predictably sleep evades him and he patiently waits for the hour of the wolf to pass. Like so many nights before, alcohol and exhaustion will blend together in a tantalizing cocktail that in the end will let him doze for a couple of hours, before dawn breaks and the day—this process—has to be started anew. He's played this game before and he knows the rules by heart.

Briefly, his lips rest on the rim of the glass. And then he drinks.

The golden liquor slides down his throat, burning its way through his system. The sting of the flavour is hardly recognised, his taste buds already numb and non-responsive. He's grateful for his abundant replicator rations and silently thanks Starfleet for the half-empty bottle on the table. At least they've done something right.

Swirling the glass in his hand, he watches the fluid slosh around, bouncing against its confines. The movement mesmerizes him; a golden storm in a see-through cage, and for a short moment he deludes himself into thinking that this will be enough. That he won't have to finish his drink and that his insomnia will be cured by the spellbinding waves in the glass. Hypnosis ala bourbon.

Yeah, right. He snorts and takes another mouthful.

His solitude is suddenly interrupted by the harsh sound of the chime and he suppresses the urge to swear. He doesn't want visitors. He says nothing and remains in his seat. The chime rings again, but he refuses to acknowledge it. Seconds pass in silence and he starts to think that he might have dodged the bullet. The tension brought upon him by the idea of company slowly dissipates and he's about to sigh in relief when the doors, in stark contrast to the chime's unforgiving shrill, glide open quietly, forced into treachery by a woman of many talents.

The light from the hallway temporarily illuminates the room and he exhales at the sight of her, suddenly not so foreign to the idea of company after all. If nothing else she'll be a fitting addition to the demons he's entertaining. His growing bitterness at their newfound situation claws at his tolerance for other people and she seems to be the only one he can actually stand to be around. Looking at her, he wonders if it's because he knows there's no one who understands the presence of demons better than her, or if it's because he's beginning to realise that he's never stopped loving her.

She walks inside and the doors slide shut behind her, restoring the room to its original dimness. He watches her naked feet bury themselves in the carpet and silently decides that he has no qualms about letting her stay, whatever his reasons might be. Maybe _she_ can help him sleep. Maybe he can help her. He tries to smile, but the movement feels foreign to him and he takes another sip of his drink.

"You need a new code," she says, voice hoarse after too many debriefings, and makes no attempt to apologise for invading his privacy.

"Apparently." A tinge of humour manages to find its way into his tone and he knows she recognises it. He rubs a hand over his unshaven chin, looking at her with half-hearted amusement. Her lips quirk into a small smile, knowing she's forgiven.

His tired eyes travel over her form. She doesn't seem to mind the scrutiny, but she fiddles a little with the tie of her robe. He can see the nightgown underneath. The pink one she used to wear on _Voyager _has been replaced. He liked the pink. The dark blue colour of this one, however, complements his sombre mood and he decides he likes it too.

Maybe even better.

Meeting her eyes, the same bone-crushing fatigue and disappointment he's suffering from reflects back at him, and he silently damns Starfleet and the brass for doing it to her. This was not how it was supposed to be. Not for her. Not for any of them, and it has pulled the rug from under their feet.

He can't even begin to explain the incredulous feeling of joy that surged through him at the first sight of Earth nine weeks ago. He remembers thoughts of awe at what this ship and its crew had done. How impressed he was, and still is, at how uptight Fleeters and Maquis misfits managed to put aside their differences and become a family, seemingly without even noticing. Where one was weak the other was strong, and nine weeks ago they reached their goal. Never has any commanding officer been more proud of his crew. Never has any commanding officer been more proud to serve with his captain. Nine weeks ago _Voyager _came home, and they all rejoiced.

Only the adjustment to being back has been more difficult than they anticipated. And home, it turns out, is not the Alpha Quadrant after all, but a battered ship with small quarters and recycled air. And Starfleet has done nothing to help the situation.

Elation has been strangled by debriefings and red tape, by questions of loyalty and indecent behaviour, by suspicions and accusations, and the prospect of an uncertain future. Chakotay longs to be back on _Voyager_, and knows he's not the only one. He fears that the Alpha Quadrant will be lost to all of them if Starfleet doesn't release its chokehold and allows them reconnect with family, friends, and places that used to be called home. That _should_ be called home. A blue planet named Earth. A desert world named Vulcan. A war-torn land named Trebus. Bolarus IX, Betazed, Qo'noS, Bajor…

But Starfleet refuses to let go. It wants answers and information, facts and details, and nothing they offer up seems to be good enough. How can he defend and explain the Delta Quadrant to someone who's never been there? How can he justify the choices he's made and the orders he's given to people who haven't lived through what they have? How can he hope to convey how exceptionally well his crew have dealt with their plight? And how can he keep from raging when a committee of tight-assed admirals poke and prod about the woman standing in front of him, searching for errors in judgement and hints at relationships that were never consummated? Every minutia of his life on _Voyager_, every mission, every near death experience and first encounter is to be examined and dissected.

_She's_ to be examined and dissected, and he feels violated on both their behalves.

She walks over to where he's sitting, stopping right in front of him. He watches as she gestures for his drink, and he obeys, giving it to her. She empties it, swallowing hard, and sets the glass on the table. Her eyes meet his once more and he sees something there that is almost new to him. The silence between them is deafening, and he knows with sudden clarity that their relationship is about to change.

It's about time, really.

He looks at her and thinks of the woman she was when he materialized on her bridge seven years ago. She's not the same, but then, neither is he. He misses that woman, but the one standing in front of him is still the one who brings him peace, even in her darkest hours, and he's relieved that their glorious return to the Alpha Quadrant brought newfound romances to an abrupt end.

She finally speaks, and though her question is filled with undeclared truths and promises, her voice is calm as ever.

"Tell me why the two of us is the only thing that seems to make sense to me?"

She's not desperate; she isn't begging or throwing herself at him, like he has to admit he's fantasised about. He decides that this version is better than the fantasy anyway. It's true to her nature, and it's her he's in love with, not some made-up version of a lesser person.

"Maybe it's because you can only put off the inevitable for so long," he offers, and there's no hint of self-conceit in his words.

A smile flits across her features and she nods.

He worships that smile.

It gives him hope that it won't always be like this, that at some point Starfleet will have their answers, and _they'll_ have their lives back. He reaches out for her and it's all the encouragement she needs. She more or less crawls onto his lap, winding her arms around him, and draws her body as close to his as she possibly can. Her knees press against either side of his hips, and she buries her face in the crook of his neck.

He returns the hug, embracing her tightly, and revels in the feel of silk against his bare chest. He breathes in the smell of her, and silently vows to stay with her for the rest of his life. He always expected to be bursting with happiness the very moment their relationship crossed the invisible line it just has. That his heart would beat uncomfortably fast and that his spirit would soar. Instead, he feels an indefinable sensation of calm wash over him. His breath and his pulse slow, his mind stops racing, and he knows he will sleep tonight after all.

"I'm so tired," she mumbles into his neck, the vibrations sending small shock waves through his skin.

"I know," he answers, stroking her back, his thumb following the contours of her spine.

"I expected it to be easier," she confesses. "I expected it to feel like I'm home."

"Me too."

She draws back from him, hands sliding over his shoulder and down to his chest, and he can see hints of the captain appearing.

"It ends tomorrow," she says. "I'm ending it. This farce has been allowed to go on for too long. The debriefings should have wrapped up a month ago. This is a witch hunt." She takes a breath, trying to get her growing anger under control, before continuing. "I swear, by the time I'm finished the crew will be done. _You_ will be done. They can do whatever they want with me, but it stops tomorrow."

He watches her, and the image of a golden storm comes to him again. Only this storm refuses to be contained any longer. It's going to run free, crash against its confines until they break, and build until it settles by its own accord, sated and satisfied that it has reached its goal. He can see steely determination and a fire within her that tells him in no uncertain terms that come tomorrow he'll be a free man.

"They can do whatever they want with_ us_," he says, and it's not debatable. He isn't going to let her do this by herself. He'll be with her, whether she likes it or not. The same way he always has.

She looks at him for a long moment, searching his eyes for any hesitation before cupping his face. "You don't have to—" she starts, but he shakes his head and she stops. Thumbs brushing over his cheeks, she draws a shaky breath, nodding back. Then she leans forward.

Her lips meet his, soft and warm, and it hardly feels like it's the first time.

He closes his eyes and kisses her back.

The tip of her tongue licks at him, and his fingers slowly trail down her ribs, settling at her hips when the kiss deepens. He pulls her body closer and groans in her mouth at the contact. She feels like she belongs here, he thinks, and it's a good thought. He always suspected she would. His hands move down her thighs then back up again, the material of the nightgown inching its way upwards with every movement. Soon his hands are brushing over skin.

When they finally break apart, she leans her forehead against his and sighs.

"Can you hear that?" she asks.

"Hear what?"

"The silence."

He can tell she's smiling, as she continues.

"I just kissed you. With all the excuses I've made over the years you'd think the world as we know it should have ended by now."

He pushes her back so he can look at her. Then he cracks. His guffaws fill the room until his entire body shakes in its seat. Her laughter soon blends with his, and he hugs her to him. There's no longer a single doubt in his mind. They'll be alright and so will the rest of the crew. After all, they've come home and by tomorrow they'll all be free. She'll see to it. They both will.

They fall asleep together that night, another first in a lifetime to come, and Chakotay is right to believe her. Less than twenty-four hours later, the crew of _Voyager_ are no longer Starfleet's hostages. They are free to go wherever they like, see whomever they please, and though it takes time, the Alpha Quadrant gradually becomes home yet again.


End file.
